Chapter Eight

“A Dolorous Duty”

1.

annabelle sewed the canvas bag herself, using a torn sail cover and the thick twine and needle the sailmakers used. The last step was to sew the flap shut over his face. She leaned and kissed his forehead before she did so, but she did not weep again. He certainly would not have wept for himself. He had lived to see them clear of all hazards, at least so far as they knew, and by his lights he had died a good death. No, he would not have wept; he would have smiled.

While she sewed, the surviving crew treated the wounded and made repairs, as well as they could. The rudder was the most difficult job, but after an hour the helmsman pronounced Lady Zumaat fit to make at least an easy glide. By then they had drifted at least ten more miles east in the light wind. Now they made their way due west in a shallow glide, searching the ground for sign of the skrill rider who had helped them and fallen in the effort. After twenty minutes they found her, and managed to bring the kite in for a gentle landing near where she tended her mount.

A dozen crewmen hung from ropes as the kite drifted toward the ground, and when they touched down they pulled the kite to a halt and placed the long-tined anchor fork among a pile of rocks. Nathanial and Tolni climbed down the boarding ladder while Annabelle rode the cargo sling down with Kak’hamish’s body. She did not bring her crutch, but Nathanial and Tolni to either side helped her.

The Martian woman stood and turned to them, and Annabelle recognised the swirling tattoos on her face immediately.

“I…do you speak Koline?” Annabelle asked.

“Yes,” the woman answered.

“Are you Gillsa?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry. Kak’hamish is dead. He asked us to entrust his body to you.”

“So he found his sleep among his own. They drove him out, but he never forgot them,” Gillsa said. Annabelle waited for an elaboration but the Martian woman simply stood, unblinking.

“Will you be able to travel?” Annabelle asked. “Your skrill is injured.”

“He mends.”

Annabelle looked around at the desolate countryside. “We thank you for helping us. I don’t…we will leave you food and water. Is there anything else we can do to help you?”

“No.”

They stood for a few long awkward seconds, but Annabelle could think of nothing else to say. She began to turn away but then stopped and reached into the pocket of her jacket. “I think this may have been done for you,” she said and took out the beautifully carved skrill horn, with the designs which mirrored the woman’s face.

Gillsa took it and looked at it closely for a moment. “So, he finished it,” she said. “It is good. There is blood in the design. His?”

“No, not his. He gave it to me and I used it against an enemy…I’m very sorry. I should have cleaned it but there has been no time.”

Gillsa looked up. “You used it on an enemy? Did you kill him?”

“Yes, I did—use it I mean, and no, I did not kill him.”

Gillsa shook her head but smiled and handed it back to Annabelle. “Next time, kill.”

Annabelle hesitated, and then took it from her and smiled in return. “Thank you. I shall.”

2.

EXCERPT 48.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press).

Tuesday, October 15th 1889.

Has it been only four days since the battle with Eclipse? It seems half a lifetime. And yet we are now airborne and, according to the ship’s captain, no more than six hours from Shastapsh. As a courier vessel preceded us with a dispatch from me and another from Corporal Tolni—which benefited greatly from Annabelle’s assistance with spelling—I expect the officials will be present to greet us. This should save a deal of trouble, as I didn’t fancy wandering through a strange town looking for the British legation and then trying to explain how we just dropped into the desert and made our way through hordes of desert nomads, flying raiders, murderous usurpers, and Worm priests, and could we please come in for a cup of tea and perhaps a bite? Especially as the coveralls we were left with after Peregrine’s destruction have fallen completely to rags and we now, of necessity, wear Martian raiment of an exotic and decidedly uncivilised appearance. Why, they would be as like to bundle us off to a lunatic asylum as give us the time of day.

Kak’hamish was right about the Siruahn Council, as he was right about so many things. There was indeed a great deal of argument and debate over what to do about us, about Lady Zumaat, her, crew, Onxym Haat, Jed-An’s three surviving guards, the Charoni Princes, the Royalist underground, and some more people I hadn’t heard of. It was all quite confusing, but in the end was sorted out more-or-less to everyone’s satisfaction.

They declared Lady Zumaat a hostile vessel and so seized her as a prize, but when it was pointed out she had already been seized from the plotters, and had actually put paid to a ship packed full of blood-thirsty revolutionaries, they decided instead to sell the ship at auction and divide the proceeds—as prize money—among the surviving crew, which I thought quite generous, especially as I came in for an officer’s share. After fees, special charges, taxes, and commissions were subtracted, there wasn’t as much money as I had expected, but the ship was rather badly beat up, and having a little silver in the pocket is better than none.

As to Annabelle, Tolni, and I, they presented us with very nice medals of appreciation, sent a courier boat ahead with our dispatches—as I mentioned before—and then packed us up in this compact little wind-wing. It’s slightly smaller than Eclipse, but every bit as fast. The quarters are cramped, compared to those on the dear old Lady Zumaat, but we shan’t need them for long.

The most puzzling aspect of the entire affair was the business with Kak’hamish’s medicine bag—or at least that is how I always thought of it, incorrectly as it turns out. As requested, we presented the bag to the Council after explaining the great service our late friend had done them, literally giving his life to thwart the attempt to overthrow them and establish an absolutist prince over them. They expressed gratitude for his sacrifice, rather as one normally expects elected officials to do when confronted with the sacrifice of unknown foreigners—let us say “with polite interest”. Then they opened the bag and damn me if they were not struck dumb. Inside was nothing but a heavy golden ring, but it turns out it was the seal of the city of Siruahn, missing for over twenty years, ever since they violently overthrew and chased out their last prince, a fellow named Hamishaan III. That would be the stupid young tyrant Kak’hamish spoke so ill of, and apparently with excellent reason.

The mystery, of course, is how the seal ring came into the possession of our friend. I asked Annabelle for her opinion, but she only stared at me long enough to be rude and then said I may be the thickest man she ever knew. I requested an explanation of her remark but she refused to elaborate, still does, and I find the situation most vexing.

That said, I find it encouraging her spirits remain so high. I can hardly wait to get to a decent workshop and begin work on her replacement leg. I feel as if I am bubbling over with ideas for its refinement, and each day I add another note to my diagrams.

It will be so very good to get back home.

3.

sunlight sparkled off the serene blue water of the broad canal as the Siruahn patrol kite glided toward the green grass of the Shastapsh landing ground. The placid waters of the canal contrasted strongly with the city itself, from which a dozen or more columns of smoke rose, although Nathanial saw no evidence of open fires. Whatever violence had visited here seemed to have run its course. Whether that was good news or bad remained to be seen. The three travellers clustered at the rail, studying the ground below anxiously, but whatever misgivings they had, all remained silent.

As the kite settled to the green sward, Nathanial was relieved to see a dozen red-coated soldiers waiting in formation, their two officers—one in red, one in dark blue—Earth humans although the others were clearly locally-raised. There was nothing unusual about that; most of the Crown troops on Mars were natives with British officers.

Corporal Tolni disembarked first and presented himself to the officer while Nathanial helped Annabelle down.

“Rather nice of them to send an honour guard, don’t you think?” he asked her.

“I suppose,” she answered doubtfully, “although they do not look particularly friendly.”

Nathanial turned to see the officers approach, the one in the lead, a well-tanned and handsome man in his early thirties, wearing the red tunic of the Army. The blue-coated naval officer walked a few steps behind. The Army officer turned to Annabelle first and touched the rim of his cork pith helmet.

“Miss Annabelle Somerset?” he inquired.

“And by whom do I have the pleasure of being addressed?” she answered.

“Very sorry, Ma’am, manners grow rusty from lack of use out here. Witheringham, Major, Fourth Syrtis Major Foot, at your service.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Major Witheringham, and I am indeed whom you seek. This is my—ˮ

“Hello, Annabelle,” the second officer said, stepping into view, and Nathanial immediately recognised the voice as that of Lieutenant George Bedford of HMAS Sovereign.

“I…oh, George. Hello,” Annabelle said, and Nathanial could see the colour rise in her cheeks.

“Why, Lieutenant Bedford!” Nathanial exclaimed, hoping to draw his attention away from Annabelle’s obvious embarrassment at her current condition. “So good to see you again. How fares HMAS Sovereign?”

Nathanial expected a polite greeting in return. Instead Bedford turned cold eyes on him and nodded to Major Witheringham.

“That’s your man, Major. That’s Stone.”

Witheringham gestured to his soldiers and two trotted forward, their rifles carried at port arms and, Nathanial noticed for the first time, mounting shining bayonets. Corporal Tolni stood at rigid attention by the formation, his face twisted in distress at the scene unfolding before him.

“Nathanial Stone, I hereby place you under arrest for the deliberate sabotage and destruction of the heliograph station Peregrine, and for the attendant loss of property and life. Guards, take him away.”

The End.

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Dark Side of Luna by J.T. Wilson